Six Hurts

A pool of ever expanding red oozed out from the underneath of the grinning prostate body.
What were once the insides of the man spewed gently out of the gaping chasm that was once his chest.

He had achieved what had always been his ultimate goal. As his form had wilted and crumbled before his creation he felt a wave of ecstasy shoot through. And as the rush expanded to reach its summit, his head exploded sending a greyish red matter splattering against the surrounding surfaces; the sub made by his head lost in the magnitude of the event.

The feeble hypnotic thudding of the irredescent attempt at celebration had never quenched his appetite and as time wore on, his craving grew into need.
Experiments by others had started to yield results. Yet, machinery of a previously unexplored nature was needed to implement the intensity of experience that his need demanded.

Once implementation had got under way, his yearning grew into a strong addiction. Although this was not a extraordinary event, especially among his peer (bass fiends of a quite extraordinary level), there was something that was.

He would always need it louder. Turning up at his friends would bring about never ending grief, with the riot squad inevitably demanding to speak to the organisers within minutes of his arrival.

People would never even try to ask him to turn his personal stereo down; the usual reaction was to hastily depart the carriage, holding their ears and cursing what they were sure was a massive hole to the screaming tunnels of the underground.

Rumours were abound that he was surely deaf. Others spouted how he was no longer a man, an operation by a mad optician had rendered him audio-sexual. He was said to be constantly masturbating with his thumb down his earhole. His headphones dripping with what the sympathetic called his affliction.

None of them really knew, and as no one had had an audible conversation with him for years, they were unlikely to find out.

One day though his creation was ready and as he stood poised for entry, he passed his eye over the desolate building that engrossed with dirt and defunct designers malfunction mechanical mess, held his spawn.

Stepping firstly into the small enclave, he stared to turn one of the many knobs that made up the bass generator.
In front of him, as far as he could reach upwards and to the side, were dials and switches, buttons and levers.

And after days of constant filtering, a satisfactory outcome had been reached and a wave of excitement edged over him as he waited for his lover to emerge.

• Other texts by Dan Hekate on datacide-magazine.com
• Dan’s website
• The Wirebug artist profile on praxis-records.net

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